


Of Sorts

by ProneToRelapse



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Violence, coffee shop AU, hitman/assassin au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:55:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Claude really likes the cute barista at his favourite coffee shop. Too bad nothing will come of it.A coffee shop AU... Of sorts.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 11
Kudos: 84





	Of Sorts

**Author's Note:**

> So... This was originally going to be PWP, but it sort of... got away from me a bit. And once I’d finished there was nowhere in the main fic I could fit the... uh... sex without it seeming ham fisted and out of place. So... Have this. I’m not super jazzed with it but I’ve spent the past two days working on it and if I have to look at it again my eyes will fall out of my head.
> 
> Enjoy!

The dossier arrives like it always does, pushed through the letterbox at six A.M sharp with no sign of the messenger who brought it no matter how hard Claude tries to catch a glimpse of them. It slips through the flap and hits the doormat with a dull thud and when he fetches it there are no identifying marks on the brown manila envelope except for the simple geometric stamp of a stag’s head, which isn’t much to go on unless you’re the one it’s addressed to. He opens it and peruses its contents over a simple breakfast of eggs and toast, flipping through every page and photograph and making careful notes of his own because whoever compiles these things definitely doesn’t include the information that  _ really  _ matters. An oversight, but that’s why the higher ups employ him. He’s meticulous. 

Once breakfast is finished and the plates are dropped in the sink to deal with later, along with the past week’s worth of dishes and cutlery that are also down to be dealt with  _ later _ , he slips the envelope into his briefcase and heads out into the crisp morning still shrouded in a thick layer of icy winter mist. He doesn’t have far to go so unfortunately he can’t take the car and benefit from its powerful heater until it’s time to get to work, but he has his own pit stop to make between home and the office so he won’t have to endure the chill for too long. 

He turns his collar up against the cold wind, and ducks down further into his scarf as he makes his way down the quiet streets, seemingly the only one awake at such an early hour. That is until he turns the corner onto the main high street and sees the scant few eager Christmas shoppers, determined to avoid the rush that will inevitably take over the city centre come lunchtime, and those poor nine-to-five pencil-pushers who have to be up at the crack of dawn to begin a gruelling commute before the subway is overrun at rush hour. he spares them all a pitying thought as he walks down the street, shoulders just starting to cramp from suppressing the urge to shiver, until he spots his destination and lets out a soft sigh of relief. 

It had opened just over a month ago, a strange sight to behold in such a metropolitan area, and Claude had only gone in because he’d been trying to avoid someone who he would much rather peel his own face off than speak to for more than thirty seconds, but the moment he’d stepped inside he’d been hopelessly charmed by the little artisan coffee shop, with its terracotta tiles and hanging baskets of decorative plants. The wooden sign outside says  _ Remire _ in gently sloping cursive and it’s Claude’s absolute favourite place in the city. 

But that _may_ just be because of the pretty barista more than the quaint decor. 

She’s there already when he steps inside, bell above the door tinkling softly as he pushes it open, and judging by the warmth and the scent of fresh coffee, she’s been awake and working for a lot longer than he has. She looks up as he heads toward the counter and though she gives him the same flat stare she does every morning, her lips twitch like she’s trying to fight a smile. 

“Morning, Claude.”

He beams at her. “Good morning, Byleth, my sun and stars. You’re looking radiant as ever. Have you done something new with your hair?”

“No.”

“No? Then maybe it’s just that you look particularly beautiful in the early morning sunlight.” He winks at her and she rolls her eyes like she always does, taking a to-go cup from the stack on the countertop. Claude leans his forearms on it as he watches her work, propping his chin up on his palm and fixing her with his best smile, his most charming one that seems to work on everyone except her. “Best part of my morning is seeing you.”

“Your mornings must be godawful, then,” she says, turning her back to him as she fills the cup with steaming hot water and the scent of pine, familiar and resinous, fills the air. She puts a lid on the cup and puts it on the counter for him, earning her an even wider smile from Claude that doesn’t change her own expression in the slightest. “Three-fifty.”

As always, he puts a twenty down on the counter, gesturing to the tip jar, and takes his tea, sniffing it with a pleased hum. “You’re a goddess among the coffee beans, Byleth. So, dinner tonight?”

“I can’t,” she says, folding her arms. “My dog died.”

Claude pouts at her. “You used that one already. Twice, if memory serves.”

“I have lots of dogs.”

“And you’re terrible at keeping them alive, apparently.” Claude sips his tea, sighing dramatically. “Very well, I’ll just dine alone, weeping into my food because my soulmate won’t bless me with her time. My condolences for your third deceased canine and I hope, in spite of that, you have a wonderful day.”

Byleth dumps the change from his twenty into the tip jar. “Thanks. Have a nice day, Claude.”

He blows her a kiss before heading back out into the cold, chipper despite her rejection and clutching a blessedly warm cup in his palms. It’s been a  _ thing _ since he first stepped in there those few weeks ago, playfully flirting and joking around, and while he’s sure he really would enjoy dinner with her, he’s fully aware it would be a bad idea for that to ever happen. He just can’t help himself though, she’s even more cagier about herself than he is. So while he’s fully aware it won’t ever come to anything, he allows himself this small bit of fun because it’s harmless enough, and it’s the only place in the city he can get Almyran pine needle tea without having to submit his bank account to the frankly  _ exorbitant _ importation fees. He does wonder how a small, independently run coffee shop can afford it, but maybe they get a wholesale discount. Who knows?

He turns the corner and looks up, peering through the thinning mist to where the office is just about visible where it towers over all the other buildings in the vicinity. In the centre of the city, Garreg Mach Holdings rears up like a fractured shard tall enough to pierce the heavens; a near entire glass structure of tinted windows and over a hundred floors. Technically it’s Claude’s place of employment, but he does most of his work in the field. He never could stick it as a desk jockey. He was always much more hands on. 

Garreg Mach isn’t his destination now, so he takes another turn down a thin, shadowed alley, slinging the strap of his briefcase over his shoulders and clutching his cup in one hand like it’s the most precious cargo. Which it is, he’s going to need the heat to warm his fingers in a little while and he’d never forgive himself if he spilt what Byleth has so generously gifted him. For three-fifty. And as part of her job. But the point stands. He ascends the fire escape nimbly, one-handed like it’s the easiest thing in the world, but he can’t stop his grimace when he touches the icy metal of the ladder and the cold air is even more frigid the higher he gets. 

But once at the top he finds the window unlocked just as the dossier said it would be and slips through it to the abandoned apartment within, shivering as the stale air inside chases away the worst of the winter cold. He crosses the room to the next window and though that one is locked he makes quick work of the latch, throwing it open and setting down his briefcase, crouching down to take the small silver earpiece out of the inside pocket and slip it into his right ear. 

  
  


_ “Golden Deer signing on,”  _ says a robotic voice.  _ “Please wait.”  _ Claude waits as told but it only takes a few seconds before a smooth but clear voice is drifting through the tiny speaker, prompting a grin to spread out across his face. 

_ “Good morning, Von Riegan,”  _ the voice says. 

“Mornin’, Teach,” he chirps back, unzipping the second compartment of his briefcase. “And just how are you this fine winter morning?”

_ “All the better for hearing your dulcet tones,”  _ his handler quips.  _ “Did anyone see you enter?” _

“Not a soul,” Claude promises, lifting out the compact frame of his beloved compound bow from the hidden compartment of his briefcase. It’s a beautiful weapon: sleek, compact, copper-toned alloy coating a carbon fibre frame that he’d had painted the moment it had entered his possession. He likes all his things to have a littler personal flourish that mark them out as his, and Failnaught is no different. Sure, it’s a family heirloom, but it’s  _ his _ now and it’s not like he intends to pass it on when he can’t use it anymore. He’s not exactly in the ideal career for kids. “So, you ready for my plan, Teach?”

_ “Ready,”  _ Teach says and Claude grins. Her name isn’t actually Teach, of course, and that isn’t even technically the sign he should address her with, but when she’d been assigned as his handler five years ago, she’d introduced herself as  _ Professor _ and that hadn’t fit right, in Claude’s humble opinion, so he had dubbed her Teach and that was that. She’s never complained about it, even seems to prefer that name, and in all the years they’ve worked together she’s never led him astray. He couldn’t ask for a better handler. 

“Okay, so, I’m going to need you to put red lights all down the north side of the city,” Claude says as he carefully starts assembling his bow. “Can you issue a congestion notice on the traffic alert system?”

_ “Inconveniencing a hell of a lot of commuters this morning, huh? Doing it now. How long are we making the delays?” _

“Ooh, should we be really mean? I’m thinking at  _ least  _ two hours.”

_ “Oh no, he’s going to be so late,”  _ Teach deadpans. 

Claude snickers. “He will be when I’m done with him.” He strings Failnaught and runs a finger along the taut wire, listening to the crisp snap of it with no small amount of pleasure. “Okay, now that his driver is held up, I want you to get all cabs out of the vicinity. Make sure ours is the only one available. Have you got a live feed?”

_ “I’m patched into the CCTV network, I have eyes everywhere.” _

“Really?” Claude says, drawing it out like he’s insinuating something naughty. 

_ “Keep it in your pants, Von Riegan, I have better things to do in my spare time than watch you shower.” _

“Aw, I’m hurt. Okay, I’m ready to go, where's our mark at?”

_ “Ignatz just picked him up. You have two minutes before he turns onto the road. You’ll have a ten second window. Don’t miss.” _

“Never do,” Claude murmurs, nocking an arrow and leaning against the window frame. 

A rifle would get the job done just as effectively. He’s fully aware that a bow isn’t the most discreet tool to use, but it adds a little personal flair to his jobs and he’s  _ very  _ proud of his work. He and Failnaught come as a packaged deal and he’s yet to hear any complaints from above about how he chooses to get shit done. It’s not as if people like him can boast of longevity, so while he can, he’s going to have as much fun as possible. 

_ “Incoming,”  _ Teach says and Claude draws the bow. 

Ignatz’s car turns onto the street and Claude hears it a handful of seconds before he sees it. The car won’t slow, not for a second, so Claude has a very slim window of opportunity, which is fine, he works well under pressure. He slows his breathing, lets the calm beat of his heart fill his head until there’s nothing but the steady rhythm in his chest and the taut resistance of Failnaught’s string against his fingers. He breathes, in… out… in… And as soon as the rear windows come into view, between two apartment blocks, six hundred yards away, he exhales slowly and with the breath, releases the arrow. 

It hits. Of course it does. Spearing through the open right side window of the cab and embedding itself in the temple of his mark. A quick, clean kill. As always. Flawless. 

_ “Beautifully done,”  _ Teach breathes and Claude preens as he disassembles his bow. 

“You flatter me, Teach. Seriously, I’m blushing. Face is  _ all  _ red.”

_ “Hush, don’t ruin the moment. I’ll send the report over now. Transfer will hit your account as soon as the Archbishop confirms. You did good. As always.” _

Claude stows Failnaught back in his briefcase and closes it, straightening up and brushing dirt from his knees. “Pleasure talking with you, Teach. Until next time. I’ll miss you. And hey, dinner tonight? I find myself free as a bird.”

_ “No chance, lover boy. I’m busy.” _

“Harsh. Alright, I’m set. Thanks for your help as always. Signing off.”

_ “Missing you already,”  _ Teach says like she always does and Claude slips the earpiece out and pockets it as he makes his way back down the fire escape. He’s twitchy with adrenaline and the deep thrum of satisfaction from a job well done, the thrill of a kill, if he’s being honest with himself. It’s a dirty job but someone’s gotta do it, and he does it  _ well.  _ He’ll send a mass text out tonight to celebrate. Maybe that’ll ease the sting of being rejected by two mysterious women twice in one day. When he steps back out into the main street he clasps his hands around the still-warm cup of tea and whistles cheerily under his breath as he heads for home. 

  
  


—

  
  


Garreg Mach Holdings is big in size only. If you threw the name into a search engine, it would bring up a page about logistics and so much boring jargon you’d be asleep before you hit halfway down the page. It’s a humble business with humble origins and no one in the city of Fódlan pays it any attention unless they’re telling newcomers what that godawful eyesore of a building is in the city centre. 

But that’s not the truth. 

Garreg Mach Holdings is quite possibly the biggest hit agency in the country and the only people who know that are the people who  _ need  _ to know. Claude firmly believes that without Garreg Mach, Fódlan would’ve been lost to a bloody war by now if they didn’t keep the peace, which is a tall order in a city with three very different, very  _ ruthless _ gangs each controlling a portion of it. They call themselves houses because gangs has a lot of negative connotations to it, and while they all definitely control their own territories, it’s Garreg Mach they answer to, that keeps them all in line. 

To the west, the city is under the Blue Lions, an outfit that pride themselves on dealing swiftly and effectively with any  _ issues  _ that might crop up. Their leader Dimitri is as violent as he is easy on the eyes, which is saying something because the guy has it going  _ on _ , in Claude’s opinion. He’s known a few people to go missing in Blue Lion territory, and he knows better than to bring it up with any of them in person. Anyone who goes missing in the Lions’ lair  _ stays  _ missing. 

To the south, there's Edelgard’s group, and out of the two of them Claude knows which group he’d rather go up against if it came to it. Where the Lions will kill you before you hit the ground, the Black Eagles will make sure you feel  _ every  _ second of your slow, painful death on the way down. They’re poised and deadly, elegant and lethal, and Claude stays far,  _ far  _ away from anyone affiliated with them because he can smell trouble a mile off and the Eagles  _ reek  _ of it. 

His own house he’s much more fond of and that’s not just because he’s biased. His loyal Deer, every single one of them golden. If you ask him he’s got the best team out of all three of them, and he’s got the facts to back his claim up. Every single one of them is an accomplished assassin in their own right, but it’s their personalities that has Claude so endeared to them. He doesn’t know how or if Dimitri and Edelgard command loyalty from their respective houses, but Claude knows every single one of his team would back him up in a heartbeat if it all went to shit. And coming from someone as suspicious as him, that’s saying something. 

It’s his team he’s heading to meet now, having summoned them all for drinks in their favourite hole in the wall downtown. They call it the Abyss because it’s dark, dingy, and attracts a lot of people you can’t picture out in the daylight, but they serve good booze and know how to deal with any troublemakers quickly and permanently.

He steps inside and shrugs off his coat, draping it over his arm as he waves to Balthus at the bar who nods in greeting and jerks a thumb over his shoulder towards the booth Claude always frequents when he comes here. The table is already full of familiar faces who’re already about six sheets to the wind. The bastards started without him, it seems. 

“Just couldn’t wait for me, huh?” Claude says as he heads over, prompting a cheer from Hilda who shoves Lorenz over to make room for him. 

“Sorry,” she says, sounding anything but. “But now the life of the party is here we can really get started!”

He snorts and sits down in the seat she so graciously vacated for him, thanking Balthus as he puts down a glass and dusty bottle of whisky on the table in front of him. Leonie and Lysithea nod in greeting while Raphael reaches over to thump him on the shoulder. 

“Great work today,” he says, grinning. “Ignatz said he didn’t even hear the arrow until it hit.”

“Serves Kostas right,” Claude says, pouring himself a generous two fingers. “Who drives with the windows down in the middle of fucking winter, I ask you?” He takes a long drink, sucking his teeth at the pleasant burn of the alcohol. “Nice driving, Ignatz, by the way. Nice and smooth.”

Ignatz doesn’t say anything but manages a faint smile. Kid is deadly in his own right, but his heart’s never been in the business. Claude respects that, just the same way he respects Marianne for electing to stay out of the field and patch up the heavies when they need it. As long as the job gets done at the end of the day, doesn’t matter if they enjoy it or not. Probably better that they don’t, which is why Claude likes his house the most. The Lions and the Eagles… Take a bit too much joy in their work. Sure, Claude is proud of a job well done, but he doesn’t get  _ off  _ to it or anything.  _ Despite _ what the rumours may say. 

“The office is going off about it,” Hilda says, picking the cherry out of her cocktail and sucking on it. “You made a good play today, taking out a player that’s been giving us no end of trouble. Even the Professor was impressed.”

“Oh?” Claude says, aiming for casual disinterest and failing spectacularly. The only downside of being fully field-based is that he’s rarely in the office, let alone in dispatch, so he’s never met any of the handlers in person. Hilda and Marianne spend a lot of time in Garreg Mach so they know pretty much everyone, which  _ also  _ means they’ve had the pleasure of meeting Teach face to face. 

“Oh, yeah,” Hilda says, gesturing with the stem of her cherry. “Said it was the cleanest kill she’s seen in a long time, which I resent  _ deeply  _ because I am  _ meticulous _ when I work.”

“You’re a hot fucking mess and you know it,” Lysithea snaps. “I  _ hate  _ being assigned cleanup duty after you’ve been on the scene. It always looks like a fucking Jackson Pollock when you’re done.”

The table erupts into laughter as Hilda pouts, throwing her cherry pit at the smaller girl much to her deep and vocal displeasure. “I get the job done!” She protests over their laughter. “So what if I get a bit carried away sometimes? I’m not as bad as Leonie!”

“Excuse you,” Leonie scoffs. “I’m the cleanest out of all of you.”

“Actually, I believe that title goes to Raphael,” Lorenz says. “You all deal with far too much blood. Hard to make a mess when you’re only snapping someone’s neck. Raphael is exceptionally clean.”

“Wow,” Raphael says. “That’s literally never been said to me before.”

“I used to hold the title of cleanest kill,” Claude points out. “But that got taken away when I used a little too much poison on a mark. In my defence, he was supposed to asphyxiate, not projectile vomit his guts out.”

“Oh, don’t remind me,” Lysithea groans. “That was disgusting.”

The night progresses in much the same way, drinks and banter flowing in equal measure as they revel into the early hours. Ignatz and Marianne bow out early, understandably, Ignatz offering Marianne a ride home because he’s the only sober one and Hilda wants to stay out longer, and then Lysithea and Lorenz because he can’t resist offering to walk a lady home, even if said lady could kill him in a hundred different ways with only a pencil and some string. Raphael and Leonie head out shortly after until it’s just Claude and Hilda left, a nearly empty bottle of whisky between them. 

“So, any luck with your coffee shop beau yet?” She asks, attempting to pour herself another glass and missing so badly that Claude has to move the glass over for her. 

“No, sadly,” Claude sighs, regarding the amber liquid his own glass with a frown. “Which, y’know, swing and a miss, it’s fine, happens to the best of us. But I just…”

“Can’t stop thinking about her?” Hilda guesses, bang on the mark though Claude  _ definitely  _ won’t tell her that. 

“No,” he lies. “I was just thinking how we can’t really settle down in our line of work.”

“Well, no, not in the traditional sense,” Hilda says, shrugging. “But you could always try going for someone on the inside. Less secrets that way. Also less chance of it going sideways.”

“More chance of losing them to occupational hazards,” Claude counters. “And there’s not really anyone I’d go for who isn’t already taken.  _ You  _ were the safest bet but that went up in smoke as soon as you met Marianne.”

“Also, no offence,” Hilda says, nose wrinkling, “but I drive on the complete other side of the road so there wasn’t even the  _ slightest _ chance. Sorry.”

Claude lifts one shoulder up in a shrug. He’d known that from the start and he’s not exactly cut up about it. He made his peace with the fact that he’d be leading a lonely life a long time ago. It’s just a bit disheartening, going home to an empty house every day because he keeps such irregular hours he can’t even look after a  _ pet.  _ He tried keeping fish once but kept forgetting to feed them and the guilt trip he got from Marianne was so not worth the hassle. 

“You could try one of the  _ others, _ ” Hilda suggests and the way she says it tells Claude exactly who she means. “I bet Dimitri would be down.”

“That is not a tree I am  _ ever  _ going to bark up,” Claude says seriously. “Again. Learned my lesson last time.”

“Yeah, no more detail than that, please. I have enough trouble sleeping at night as it is.”

“Noted.” Claude throws back the rest of the whisky in his glass and slams it down, shaking himself to try and disrupt the gloomy route his thoughts are trying to take. “Anyway, enough of that. Maybe romance will sweep me off my feet when I’m not expecting it. Or maybe I’ll die on a job and I won’t have to worry about it.”

“Or maybe you could just get a cat and stop being so dramatic,” Hilda offers.

“Maybe,” Claude says, putting his palms on the table. “Okay, I’m going home to my empty house. Maybe I’ll look on the local shelter’s adoption list and drown my sorrows looking at their fluffy faces. How many cats do you think is too many?”

“On god,” Hilda says seriously, “I am begging you to just get laid.”

  
  


—

  
  


Christmas comes and goes with little fanfare for Claude, as it always does. He skypes his parents the day of with promises of a visit in the summer he knows he won’t -  _ can’t - _ follow through on, but it’s nice to speak with them all the same, even if the probing questions about his love life are getting harder and harder to avoid. He spends the rest of the day vegetating in front of the television and does actually look at local shelter listings on his laptop, but it really wouldn’t be fair on an animal to be stuck inside all day when he’s out killing people for money and sometimes gone for days at a time. 

The entire concept of Christmas spirit is lost on him and though the Deer do exchange gifts, they’re all too busy with their own lives and targets to meet up often enough to quell Claude’s restless loneliness. He’s a bit jealous, if he’s being honest, that they all seem to be able to work and live when he’s stuck stagnating on his own. He’s happy for them, truly, but there’s only so much he can take. 

And it’s with that bleak thought in his head that he wraps up and heads out on a snowy New Year’s Eve, desperate to be anywhere but home alone with his bitter thoughts. A walk will do him good, get him out of his own head for a bit. 

It’s completely unintentional that he ends up walking past Remire; he’d been on autopilot and just aimlessly following the sidewalk rather than making a conscious decision to go there, but that’s where he ends up. He pauses outside for a good minute before heading in and as always it’s warm inside and smells of freshly brewed coffee. He loosens his scarf as he heads to the counter where a tall, broad-shouldered man is standing, looking a tad ridiculous in the small apron emblazoned with the cafe’s logo. He looks more like a grizzled security guard than a barista. 

“Happy New Year,” Claude says anyway to which the man just grunts. “Small—“

“Almyran Pine. I’ve got it, dad,” Byleth says, stepping out from the back with a large box in her arms. Her father, evidently, nods and takes the box from her, carrying it down to the other end of the counter to start unpacking it. Byleth brushes her hands off and sets about making Claude’s tea and he finds that the familiar scent always hits harder this time of year. 

“You look miserable,” Byleth says as she fills a large cup with hot water. He did say small, right? Did she not hear that?

“Thanks,” Claude says instead, digging through his pockets for his wallet. “I don’t like this time of year.”

“Me neither,” Byleth says, putting a tray on the counter and setting the cup on it. After a moment of regarding his face with narrowed eyes she snatches up a pair of tongs and selects a fruit tart from the display cabinet, putting it on the tray for him. “On the house,” she says. “Can’t have my best customer looking so miserable at Christmas.”

As weary as he is, Claude can’t even offer a witty rejoinder. All he can manage is a small but genuine smile, a rare thing from him. “Thank you,” he says, attempting to reach out and slip a twenty into the tip jar but she slaps his hand away rather aggressively. 

“One sec,” she says, turning to her father. “Dad, I’m taking a quick break.” The man only grunts in acknowledgment so Byleth takes her apron off and stows it under the counter, making herself a quick cup of tea and gesturing for Claude to pick a seat. He does, selecting a table in the corner, as far away from her father as he can because there’s something about him that just screams ‘I could kill you in a heartbeat’, and for someone as skilled as Claude is in that particular area, that’s saying something. 

Byleth sits opposite him, wrapping her hands around her own mug of tea, a strange blend that smells like a mixture of citrus and something slightly minty. Claude takes a bite out of the tart she’d given him and can’t stop the small moan of pleasure at the taste of the delicious mixture of sweet and sharp.

“God, that’s the best thing I’ve eaten all year,” he says, looking at it. “What  _ is  _ it?”

“Morfis plum tart,” Byleth says. “Dad’s specialty.”

That’s… Surprising. “He… doesn’t look like a baker.”

The side of Byleth’s mouth quirks up in a half smile. “He didn’t used to be, but he isn’t ready to retire just yet and wants to keep busy, so he helps me out around the cafe. I think he's got a hidden talent for baking but he’s really grumpy about it.”

Claude snorts, taking another bite of the tart. “That’s the only thing I know about you with any certainty.”

“What is?”

“That you have a dad. Don’t know anything else.”

Byleth looks amused by that. “Nothing else?”

“Well, your name, but I only know that because you wear a name tag. And even then it could be a fake name.” He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“No, it’s my real name. Byleth Eisner. My dad’s name is Jeralt. So now you know two things.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle!” He laughs when she rolls her eyes, feeling more lighthearted than he has in… a worryingly long time. “Feel like telling me anything else? Like why you own a cafe when you seem to hate anything to do with the general public?”

Byleth sips her tea, regarding him over the rim of her cup. “I don’t hate it, I’m just not talkative.”

Claude waits. Then grins. “Okay, yeah, I got that. How are you with answering questions?”

“I think I understand the concept,” she says dryly. “Oh, look at that, I answered one!”

Claude snickers. “Okay, point taken. How about I ask one, then you ask one. Seems only fair.”

Byleth nods and gestures for him to go first. He considers for a moment and decides to start soft. “Where were you before you came to Fódlan?”

“All over the place,” Byleth says. “Dagda, Brigid, Sreng, we travelled a lot for dad’s work, but ended up here about five years ago.”

“That long? I’d never seen you around before.”

“I don’t go out much,” Byleth says, rubbing her chest briefly. “Anyway, it’s my turn now. Where did you grow up?”

Ooh, tricky one. “Not here,” Claude says, grinning when her eyes narrow. “Come on, look at me. Do I look like native Fódlan to you?”

She does look at him. Rather intently, actually. “No,” she says thoughtfully. “Your complexion is a lot darker, but you don’t have an accent so that’s not much of a hint. Not Brigid, you haven’t got the tattoos.”

“That  _ you  _ can see,” Claude can’t help quipping. She kicks his shin under the table but that doesn’t stop his snicker of amusement. 

“It’s got to be Almyra,” Byleth says. “You like the tea too much.”

“Right answer,” Claude says, nodding. “Don’t go spreading it around though, okay?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Byleth promises. “Okay, your turn.”

Claude brushes crumbs from his hands and leans back in his seat, gazing at her thoughtfully while he tries to think of questions a bit more interesting than birthplaces and nationalities. He’s never cared much for that crap anyway. “Where did you go to school?”

“Homeschooled,” Byleth says, which tracks. She’s awkward but not in a socially inept way, just that she seems more comfortable in her own company than anyone else’s. “How about you?”

“Almyra,” Claude says. “Though I did study here for a while before I moved. Specialism?

“Don’t have one,” Byleth says. “Could never decide on anything and nothing particularly stuck out as interesting. Kind of like history, but I was never very studious. I prefer to learn by doing and there weren’t many vocational options for me to choose from.”

God, everything she says just draws Claude in deeper. He’d happily sit here for hours trading questions back and forth until he knew everything, but even then he probably wouldn’t be satisfied. That’s a dangerous line of thought to follow, but fuck it. He’s feeling a bit daring today, it seems. 

“Hobbies?” Byleth asks

“Oh, I, uh…” Claude wracks his brain for anything that won’t make him seem like a loser. “Competitive archery. I’m a good marksman.”

“Really?” Byleth’s eyebrows actually raise at that. “How good?”

Claude winks. “The best.” It’s not even a lie, as arrogant as it sounds. He’s a crackshot, the best at Garreg Mach. Possibly even in Fódlan. Definitely in Almyra. Byleth just rolls her eyes like he’s full of it, which he’s more than happy to let her believe. More fun that way. “Do you actually have dogs?”

Byleth hesitates. “Now that puts me in an awkward position,” she says. “Which answer makes me sound like less of an asshole for turning down your offer of dinner?”

“Just be honest.”

She sighs. “None. Always wanted one, though.”

Claude tilts his head. “I’m going to ask another question. You can have two on your next go, but I’ve obviously got to ask. Why won’t you go to dinner with me?” He's not sure why he asks, other than he’s curious. He doesn’t really want an answer, but he’s curious by nature and he does sort of want to know. Even if it doesn’t help in the long run. After all, he believes what he’d said to Hilda about his line of work not allowing for romance. Still. It’s nice to kid yourself you’ve got opportunities, even if you can’t take them. 

“Two reasons,” Byleth says rather than dodging the question like he’d expected. “The first one is that you don’t seem to mean it. You always ask like you know I’m going to turn you down. Like it’s a game you’re not really that interested in playing.”

That makes him pause, cup halfway to his mouth. She’s a lot more observant than he gave her credit for. That’s… alarming. “What’s the second reason?”

She looks at him for a long moment before averting her gaze and he swears he can see a faint tinge of pink in her cheeks. “There’s… someone else.”

Ah. Well. That’s. Huh. That’s not what he’d been expecting at all. He hadn’t even really known what to expect, but the idea that there’s someone else is rather sobering. And surprisingly enraging but he shoves that feeling down as deep as it will go. “Right,” he says, sounding far more relaxed than he feels. “Gotcha. I’ll stop asking. You could’ve just said.”

She looks back at him and there’s a hint of steel in her eyes. “It’s none of your business,” she says shortly and he holds up a placating hand. 

“That’s fair. But like you said, it was just a game. Right?”

“Right.” She nods, a sharp, jerky motion. “I should get back to work. Nice talking to you.”

“And you,” Claude says, and means it. “Listen, I know you’ve got… your own stuff going on, but maybe we could do this again? I’m not asking like before, I mean strictly as friends. I’ll behave from now on, you have my word.”

Byleth pauses, half out of her seat. “Sure,” she says after an unnecessarily long pause. “ _ Just  _ as friends.”

“Friends,” Claude agrees, even if it stings a little. “And thank you. This really cheered me up.”

“I’m glad,” Byleth says in tone so soft Claude’s foolish heart actually skips a beat. “Happy New Year, Claude.”

“Happy New Year,” he murmurs, watching her head back round the counter, a small half smile on his face. 

Oh. 

Oh  _ no.  _

  
  


_ — _

  
  


As winter slowly gives way to spring, Claude throws himself into his work with the single-minded focus of a man on a mission. Several missions in fact, because he takes every dossier available, doubling up on jobs whenever he can in the hopes that he can work out his frustrations by putting an arrow in the head or throat of assholes who aren’t  _ technically  _ responsible for his distressed state of mind, but  _ someone  _ has to take the blame and it might as well be them. 

He avoids going to Remire as much as possible which is probably not the best way to deal with infatuation, especially not since he’s basically asked Byleth if they could be friends and then proceeded to ghost her, but if he sees her he knows he’s just going to sit there all moon-eyed and forlorn because he’s got a  _ thing  _ for her and there’s someone  _ else _ . Someone who is not him and he’s never thought of himself as a jealous person except that he so totally is and he’s driving himself mad about it. 

His only solace, pathetically, is the disembodied voice of Teach in his ear on every job, and he feels a bit bad about having her clock as much overtime as he is, but whenever he signs on she’s there waiting for him, cool and efficient and reassuring, and he’s so grateful for her that he can’t even begin to articulate it. 

She’s in his ear now, reeling off directions as he vaults through a warehouse down on the docks, guiding him through a layout he’s only seen in blueprints, never in person, and not taking into account all the crap it’s full of that’s currently impeding his escape. He’s currently got three tails - armed to the fucking teeth - having shaken two off by sending twin arrows into their eye sockets without even missing a step, and he’s fired up with adrenaline as he leaps over a crate and tears out into the yard to try and lose them amongst the shipping containers. 

_ “They’ve split up,”  _ Teach says as Claude scrambles up a low container to try and get to a vantage point he can shoot from. Failnaught is slung over his back, quiver strapped beside it while he leaps from crate to crate.  _ “You’ve got two coming from behind and one circling round to try and cut you off. If you carry on straight you’ll hit a container too high to climb. Go right in five seconds and jump. Don’t go high, you’ll be making yourself a target.” _

Claude does as he’s told, breathing slow and deep so he doesn’t burn out too quickly and get riddled with bullets or pass out and get jumped by heavies who were absolutely laying in wait for him. “Do we know who they are?”

_ “I’m running traces now. Didn’t get a clear look. I keep telling you to get a lapel cam.” _

“I don’t like an audience, Teach, you know that.”

_ “No? Then what am I?” _

Claude throws himself over a wide gap, landing hard on the other container and dropping into a low roll as one of the heavies opens fire on him. Should’ve stayed low, she was right. As always. “My guardian angel.”

_ “Save it, Von Riegan, you’ve got company. Shit, I haven’t got eyes this far out. Hold on, I’ll try and see if I can find you through their surveillance cams. Stay low while I find you.” _

“I’ve got this, don’t worry.” He skids down a ramp and takes off in a flat sprint across the yard, ducking behind a rusted forklift as one of the heavies just keeps fucking shooting like bullets are going out of style. They’ve got to run out of ammo at some point, right? 

_ “Hold on, I’m almost there.” _

Claude yelps as a bullet hits a crate inches from his head, diving behind a low wall and hunkering down. “Ah, shit— They’ve got me pinned down.”

_ “Stay alive, I’m working on it!” _

Claude throws his hands over his head as the rapid fire barrage from the enemy guns doubles in force. Shit, they must’ve regrouped. “What are you going to do from there?! Call down an air strike? Do we have weaponised drones I don’t know about?!”

_ “Trust me!” _

He does, which is why he stays put, curled up behind a wall that’s starting to look like swiss fucking cheese as the bullets eat into the rusted metal. He’s been in worse spots, this isn’t going to be how he goes out, but he’s running quickly out of options and if Teach can’t pull off whatever it is she’s trying to do on her end, then this  _ might  _ actually be a worse situation than previously thought and he  _ might  _ actually die here in this fucking shipping yard surrounded what smells like half an ocean’s worth of rotting fish—

An ear splitting explosion tears through the yard, throwing Claude forward and sending his ears ringing and he covers his face against debris and dirt flying every which way. He lays there, dazed and deafened, until the muffled sound of Teach’s voice yelling in his ear slowly fades back into audible range. 

_ “—gan! Claude! Can you hear me? Claude! I still don’t have eyes on you, answer me right fucking now!” _

“I’m here,” he groans, rolling over into his back. “What in the hell was that?”

_ “God— You scared me half to death. Answer me next time! And get yourself a fucking lapel cam!” _

“Sorry.” He spits out a mouthful of dirt, peering cautiously round the metal partition that was doing a rather piss poor job of actually shielding him. “What  _ was _ that?”

_ “Weaponised drone.” _

“Seriously?!”

_ “No, you idiot. But it  _ was _ a homing missile. We’ve been… testing some rather inventive insurance policies for our field agents. The company we get them from call them ‘javelins of light’ which I think is a fucking ridiculous name, but what can you do.” _

Claude makes his way over to the charred bodies of the heavies. He nudges one with the toe of his boot. “Not a lot we can get from them now, though. Sorry about that.”

_ “Don’t mention it. I’m just glad you’re safe.” _

“Yeah, me too…” He crouches down, covering his nose with his forearm as he pokes at one of the bodies. The acrid stench of burnt flesh makes him retch. “No identifying marks, no IDs… Hired help? Tracers pick anything up?”

_ “Not yet. I’ll pass it along to surveillance and see if they can pick anything up if the trace comes back negative. I’ve dispatched a car to your location. I’ll stay on comms in case anything else comes along that wants you dead.” _

“Aww, you do care.”

_ “Against my better judgement,”  _ she mutters.  _ “We shouldn’t have gone in so blind. Next time you might not be so lucky, and I can’t—“ _

“Can’t what? Everything okay, Teach?”

_ “No,”  _ she says grimly.  _ “Trace came back.” _

“Yeah? What’ve we got? Small time or big time?“

There’s a long enough pause that for a moment Claude thinks his earpiece has stopped working, but then Teach speaks again and she sounds  _ shocked.  _ Which is shocking in itself because  _ nothing  _ stuns the Professor. 

_ “Big time,”  _ she says quietly.  _ “Really big time. They work for Edelgard.” _

“Oh,” Claude says and he feels like he might be undercutting the poignant moment of Teach’s big revelation with just an  _ oh,  _ but he doesn’t actually have anything else to say. Maybe the explosion concussed him a little bit. “That’s… um. Not good.”

_ “No, it’s very not good. I’m calling the Deer in. The Archbishop will want to speak to you.” _

Claude nods before he realises Teach can’t see him and murmurs a soft acknowledgment before turning away from the remains of Edelgard’s lackeys and heading through the yard towards the road to wait for the car. “Hey, Teach?”

_ “Yes?” _

“I know we already established the situation as  _ not good _ , but… How bad do you think this is?”

Teach is quiet for a long moment.  _ “Current evidence suggests Edelgard just tried to have you killed,”  _ she murmurs.  _ “I would say that the situation skipped right over troubling and barrelled straight into dire.” _

“So, what do we do?”

_ “I can’t make that call. Let’s see what the Archbishop has to say first.” _

“I look forward to it,” Claude says as the car pulls up and he slides gratefully into the back seat. “Signing off. Talk to you soon.”

_ “Missing you already.” _

  
  


—

  
  


The Archbishop is a woman that Claude trusts about as far as he could throw her, which wouldn’t be very far considering she’s always flanked by at least three bodyguards Claude doesn’t have a hope in hell of getting past. She’s tall and beautiful and carries herself with an air that befits her chosen title and Claude might be just a little bit terrified of her. She’s the one who assigns the missions to every house and operative within, and while Claude has a courteous and professional relationship with her, he knows when she stops being useful to her there’s a chance that his name will show up on a dossier given to another agent and that will be the end of it. 

His interacted with her enough times now to know how to play the game, though, and when he takes the elevator up to the top floor of Garreg Mach, he’s met by one of her own guard: a man Claude just  _ loves  _ to mess with. 

“Cichol!” Claude cries when the doors open. “Aww, I’ve missed that sour face of yours. It’s good to see you, you green bastard, how have you been?”

“Claude,” Cichol says flatly, pointedly ignoring Claude’s teasing and gesturing for him to follow. “I’ve been well. You?”

“Oh, same as always, can’t complain. Well, I could, but that doesn’t make for a very pleasant conversation.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets as they walk through the halls towards the conference room. 

“You’ve seemed rather preoccupied of late,” Cichol says, side-eyeing him. “Taking enough assignments in the past month for about six agents. Something on your mind?”

“Always,” Claude says mildly. “But I have to ask, what part of doing overtime marks me out as being  _ preoccupied _ ?”

Cichol inclines his head. “You’re trying to distract yourself. We’ve noticed.”

“Oh, well  _ that’s _ not ominous at all. Got a problem with my work habits?”

“Not at all.”

“Good, then let’s move onto friendlier topics before we both say something we’ll regret and we ruin such a wonderful working relationship.”

It’s all talk and they both know it. For Claude to say something he’d regret, it would mean he’d be dead before he reached the elevator doors. He doesn’t harbour any illusions that he’s only alive because he’s got skills they need. If they decided they no longer need him, that he’s more trouble than he’s worth, he won’t live long enough to regret his misstep. It’s not the best working relationship he’s ever had, but it pays  _ really  _ well and that’s the best you can ask for, really. 

Cichol leads him into the conference room where the rest of the Deer are already assembled and, to Claude’s shock, so are the Lions. They’re sitting on opposite sides of the long table, a divide so wide it might as well be a canyon for how distrustfully they’re all glaring at each other, and at the far end of the room a short girl is standing, angelic-faced and bright eyed, with hair as green as Cichol’s. Looks can be deceiving, though, and Claude knows exactly how formidable she is. She takes after her brother in a lot of ways. 

“Cethleanne!” Claude calls to her anyway because he’s an idiot but a lovable one. He waves to her and she grins at him, hiding her giggle in her sleeve. He strides down to room to her, leaning down to kiss her cheek in a move that he knows will irritate Cichol to no end, but he can’t resist because he’s always had a soft spot for Cethleanne. “Ah, it’s been so long since I’ve seen your lovely face. I’m sorry it’s never under better circumstances.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Claude,” she says, smiling despite the awful atmosphere of the conference room. “I’m glad you’re safe. We read the Professor’s report of what happened on the docks. That could have been nasty.”

“Wasn’t the best job I’ve had, I’ll admit. But I’m alright. It’ll take more than a couple of idiots with guns to take me out.” He glances down the table. “Ooh, lots of unhappy faces. Guess I’ll take a seat and find out what’s got everyone looking like a slapped ass.”

Cethleanne giggles again, quieting when Cichol throws her a look and Claude just shrugs and takes his seat at the table next to Hilda who looks like she’s about ready to lunge across the table and throttle Sylvain with her ponytail. She could, Claude’s seen her do it before, but now probably isn’t the best time for that kind of display. As much as he’d like to see it. 

As soon as he sits down the far door opens and the Archbishop herself steps out, flanked by a man and a woman Claude recognises but can’t name. Everyone stands as the Archbishop takes her seat at the end of the table, only sitting again when she gestures for them to do so.

“Thank you for coming,” she says softly, folding her hands on the table. “I come bearing grave news and I ask that you all hold your questions until the end. I will tell you all that we know currently, but I ask that you save your comments until I am finished, in the interest of time, of which we have precious little.” She looks round at all of them, eyes both scrutinising and unknowable. She makes Claude desperately uncomfortable and he can’t really pinpoint why. Probably the fact that she can order his murder in a second. Yeah, that’s probably it. 

“The Black Eagles are no longer affiliated with Garreg Mach,” she says, words causing a ripple of tension to pass down the table. “For the past few months we’ve been getting fractured intel. Assignments not being completed, goods not being recovered, numbers being doctored. A long list of sins that cannot be overlooked any longer, and today was the final straw. Edelgard has issued her statement declaring the Eagles’ separation from Garreg Mach.”

Claude sincerely doubts that the unidentified heavies on the docks was the final straw. He looks round the table, trying to gauge the expressions on his coworkers faces. The Lions look  _ angry,  _ a unified force of fury that burns from across the table. That’s when Claude realises that Dimitri is conspicuously absent. Something unpleasant settles low and heavy his gut. There’s no  _ way… _

“Edelgard has attempted to target the house leaders,” the Archbishop continues, confirming Claude’s worst suspicions and prompting the Lions to tense as one like a taut length of rope. “She made an attempt on Claude and Dimitri’s lives today and was unsuccessful on one count. Dimitri, however, has been lost.”

Claude keeps his gaze fixed on the Archbishop, refusing to look round when the Lions all turn to look at him. He doesn’t need to look to know that they’re all glaring at him furiously. He can feel the icy heat of it one his face. He knows what they’re thinking. Why couldn’t he have died instead of Dimitri? He’s not offended. He’d probably feel the same if one of the Deer has been taken instead. Instead he’s just furious along with them. They’ve lost a friend today, and though Claude had his own issues with Blaiddyd, he can still mourn the loss of someone he used to count as a friend. 

“You’re angry,” the Archbishop says, “I know you are. But Edelgard is betting on your rage, she expects that and she’s counting on it. Anger will make you careless, will make you easy targets so she can pick you off. We do not know her goals yet and until we do, you are forbidden to engage the Eagles.” The Lions cannot stop their protests and Ingrid actually stands, ready to argue viciously until Felix pulls her back down into her seat, leaning in to whisper something in her ear. She fists her hands on the table until her knuckles turn white, but she doesn’t stand back up. Claude sympathises at the same time he thinks her a loyal fool. Acting irrationally is a good way to get yourself killed. In that, the Archbishop is correct. 

“Until further notice, all agents are being pulled from active duty,” the Archbishop tells them. Hilda visibly relaxes beside him. “Until we have more information, this will stay in effect. We will be offering security to shadow each of you in the event that she makes further attempts on your lives. Your safety is my first and highest priority.”

Claude  _ highly  _ doubts that, but he’s not stupid enough to argue. What he  _ would  _ like to know, though, is why Edelgard decided to break from Garreg Mach. He knows that if they do ever find out, the Archbishop will do everything she can to keep that information on lockdown. Which is why Claude is going to have to figure out how to shake his security detail and do a little solo investigation. Now more than ever, he’s convinced that Garreg Mach is hiding something. 

“Archbishop, if I may?” Lorenz speaks up when the Archbishop appears to be finished speaking. She nods for him to continue. “Has Edelgard made any indication of what her next move may be? Has she offered any conditions for a peaceful resolution?”

“She has,” the Archbishop confirms, surprising literally everyone in the room. “The complete disbanding of Garreg Mach to Black Eagle control. And the life of Claude Von Riegan.”

Claude chokes on his own tongue a little bit. “What’s she got against me?!” 

The Archbishop turns her in fathomable gaze to him. “That we do not know. I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on that particular point.”

“Maybe because he’s house leader?” Hilda suggests. “If she’s already killed… um.” She winces and backtracks. “If he’s the only other leader left to oppose her, maybe she knows that taking him out would leave the Deer unbalanced and less able to retaliate. Less organised.”

“Perhaps.” The Archbishop stands and that signals the end of a less than enlightening conference. All this for nothing, she could’ve just sent round a mass email, save wasting their time with half-firmed theories and little to no information. 

Though Hilda’s suggestion sticks with him as they all file out, effectively dismissed. That might be part of it, she has a good point. But Claude has a feeling that’s not the  _ only  _ reason Edelgard wants his head on a silver platter, especially seeing as the Archbishop could probably replace him in a second. And he suspects that the Archbishop is fully aware of that, too, that Edelgard has another reason for wanting his head specifically. All the more reason to take matters into his own hands. Maybe then he can figure out exactly what game Edelgard is playing. And hopefully stay alive in the meantime. 

Famous last words, as it turns out. 

Goddamn it. 

  
  


—

  
  


They come for Claude three weeks later, in the dead of night while he sleeps. Or while they  _ think  _ he’s sleeping. He’s always been a light sleeper and hasn’t rested properly since the shipping yard incident. He’s on edge and cautious and it’s that natural caution that saves his life when he hears one of the downstairs windows shatter, drawn immediately into consciousness and rolling silently out of bed, fully dressed because he’s a  _ professional _ , thank you very much. He grabs Failnaught from underneath his bed, already assembled and quiver full, strapping it on and retrieving his sidearm from the bedside table. Always prepared.

He waits for them to make the first move, pressed against the wall beside the door, hand pressed over his mouth to muffle his breathing, and as soon as the door creaks open he shoves his foot against it in a powerful forward kick that slams it right into the face of one unlucky assailant. He dodges sharply to the side as a volley of rapid shots rip through the plasterboard, his handgun raised and ready for the right window of opportunity. 

The door crumples inwards as one Eagle shoulders through it and Claude takes them down with a single shot to the forehead, splattering blood across the wallpaper. Two more take his place and Claude fells them too with clean, precise headshots that offer no chance for retaliation. 

But then his bedroom window gets smashed in and things get a whole lot messier. 

He ducks as shards of glass explode into the room and grunts as someone grabs him from behind, pinning his arms to his sides and yanking him off balance so he can get a sure enough footing to launch a counterattack. He throws his head back anyway, smashing the back of it into the Eagle’s nose and grimacing when he feels a sickening crunch and the hot rush of blood against the back of his neck. Following the movement, he throws himself backwards, sending him and the Eagle crashing onto the floor. Ribs break as he crushes them into the floor, thankfully not his own, and rolls quickly the moment the arms around him slacken. He fires two shots into their forehead for good measure and darts from the room, tackling another Eagle down the stairs as he goes. So far he hasn’t seen anyone he recognises, which is worrying if only for the fact that it means Edelgard far has more people under her command than originally thought. A potentially catastrophic assumption that Claude definitely won’t forget in a hurry. 

He jumps down the stairs, slamming his feet into the chest of the Eagle waiting at the bottom, but the moment he lands, awkwardly and going over hard on his ankle, he’s tackled from his left side by another, slamming hard into the hallway wall. He hits his head hard enough against it that his vision swims and when hands grasp his head and jaw in an attempt to snap his neck, he’s too disorientated to wrestle them off effectively, so he goes down the route of underhanded and dirty. He spits a mouthful of blood in their face, thanks to a badly bitten tongue, and brings his knee up hard into the fork of their legs. It catches them off guard for a split second, long enough for him to draw an arrow from his quiver and jam it up under their chin and through their mouth, up into their brain. The Eagle goes limp and he shoves them off, clambering unsteadily to his feet. 

The house is eerily silent now, but Claude isn’t foolish enough to believe that was all of them. Keeping his gun unholstered, he ghosts through the silent house and out the back door, vaulting over the garden fence and staying low as he makes his way to the back alley. He hasn’t got many options. He could get to Garreg Mach quickly enough, but if he’s accosted on the way, out in the open, he doesn’t have much chance of fighting off more than a handful of Eagles on his own. He could call the Deer and meet them somewhere, but the idea of calling them out into danger before he knows the full extent of the Eagles’ plan sets him even more on edge. Garreg Mach it is. He just hopes that he can get there before the Eagles do. 

He’s well acquainted with Fódlan’s back alleys at this point, does his best work under their shadowy cover, but without Teach’s guiding voice in his ear it feels almost like flying blind. But he’s quick and resourceful and fired up with adrenaline, so he sprints through them agilely anyway, vaulting a chain link fence in a few bounds and pausing to catch his breath before continuing. As far as he can tell he’s not been followed, so he takes a moment to lean against a damp wall and take stock of his situation. 

Two spare magazines for the handgun and a quiver full of arrows. The front and back of his jacket is soaked with blood that isn’t his, but will definitely get him some weird looks if he takes the main roads so he’ll have to stay out of sight until he gets to Garreg Mach. He’s got a nasty bump on his head, a bitten tongue, and what may be a sprained ankle, but the adrenaline is serving to suppress the pain for now, though he knows when that wears off he’s going be be pretty fucking sore. God, the movies always make fight scenes look so cool, but in reality they fucking  _ hurt.  _

He straightens up, making sure Failnaught is secure against his back, and carefully edges around the corner of the alley. The street is empty, all the stores dark and silent which is good because no unwanted witnesses and bad because no easy places to hide, but it means he’ll be able to spot a tail with no difficulty so he’ll take what he can get. He moves out onto the street proper, staying close to the buildings and chasing shadows as he runs down the street, keeping the sound of his footsteps irregular so he can hear if anyone starts to follow. So far so good. He’ll make it to Garreg Mach in no time. 

Or he would have. He really would have, he believes that. He’d been doing so well. Fighting off a home invasion single-handedly is a feat anyone would be proud of. 

The bullet hits him just below the right side of his rib cage, angled down toward his pelvis. Shot from above, at a high angle.  _ A sniper _ , he thinks in the split second before pain hits and momentum from the shot sends him crashing into the ground. He chokes, fighting to draw air into lungs that seize up as the shock sets in and sends his limbs convulsing. His vision swims and darkens and he spits out a mouthful of blood, dragging himself across the ground to prop himself up against the front of whatever grotty little store he’s going to fucking bleed out in front of. 

What a way to go. What a  _ fucking  _ way to—

“Can you stand?”

_ Pardon? _

Hands seize him under his arms, hauling him onto legs that refuse to obey him and knees that won’t lock long enough to keep him upright. 

“I’ve got you, come on, it’s okay, just stay calm.”

_ I’ve been shot,  _ Claude thinks indignantly as  _ someone  _ pulls his arm around their shoulders, helping him upright even though every movement makes pain radiate out from his side.  _ I think I have a right to be not very calm about it.  _

“Quickly now, let’s go.”

_ Go where?! Who are you?! _

He thinks… He thinks he recognises that voice. His mind is slow and foggy with pain and the adrenaline is starting to wear off which means  _ hello agony _ , but that voice is so very familiar and the sound of it is surprisingly calming. Bullet hole in his torso notwithstanding. 

He’s guided - dragged, really, let’s be honest - somewhere dark but warm and it looks like a cafe but his eyes are really not cooperating with his brain so he can’t be sure. Blood loss is a hell of a thing, please excuse him, he’s having a  _ moment  _ here. But whoever is half-carrying him doesn’t seem to want him dead  _ just  _ yet so he does his best to get his weak legs to obey him and hobbles along as he’s led through to a back room and then dumped rather unceremoniously on a ratty old couch that he doesn’t feel too bad about bleeding on. 

“Can you hear me?” The voice says again, low and urgent. Something smacks his cheek sharply which -  _ rude,  _ by the way - has him blinking rapidly to try and focus on the blurry face looming above him. Pale skin. Dark eyes. Nothing much to go on. 

“I hear you,” Claude manages hoarsely, coughing and groaning in pain as the movement makes his side burn. 

“Good.” The figure moves away for a moment and Claude starts to drift towards unconsciousness that promises relief from pain, but then the figure is back and stabbing him in the arm. God, he’s really not having a good night. 

“Sleep,” the voice says and Claude feels cold fingers against the overheated skin of his side. “I’ve got you.”

Claude mumbles unintelligibly, unconsciousness pulling at him with enticing, creeping fingers. Just before it takes him, he realises that he  _ does  _ know where he’s heard that voice before and the panic slowly gives way to relief. 

“Thanks, Teach,” he slurs, and is lost. 

  
  


—

  
  


Claude comes around slowly and his entire body feels like it’s on  _ fire.  _ He’s both hot and cold in equal measure, running burning and feverish one minute and icy hot the next. Sweat has his shirt slicked to his skin and his right side is aching like he’s been hit by a train. He groans and reaches for his side, clumsy fingers meeting micropore tape and gauze and that’s… Weird. He peels his eyelids apart and blinks in the hazy light of the room. It looks like a storeroom, shelves full of boxes and tubs full of things he can’t quite make out in the dim light. There’s a sink to one side with a plastic crate of cups set beside it, and an oven next to that. He smells antiseptic, sharp and astringent, but he also smells… coffee? And pine needles? What in the  _ world _ —

“Byleth?” Calls a gruff voice somewhere to his left. “He’s awake.”

_ Oh, he means me. Yes, I’m awake… Surprisingly.  _

Wait,  _ Byleth _ ?

Claude’s eyes snap open fully and when he tries to sit up, a small but insistent hand presses down on his shoulder to stop him. He looks up and sees Byleth’s pretty face above him, dark circles under her eyes and expression pinched with concern. 

“Ah,” he says. “Um. So, this is awkward.”

“How are you feeling?” She asks, leaning down to peel back the gauze on his side. She makes a displeased sound and leans over to fetch something out of Claude’s line of sight. Whatever it is she rubs over the wound and it  _ stings _ , enough that he actually hisses. “Sorry.”

“‘s fine,” he grunts, jaw clenched. “I’m guessing I have you to thank for saving my life?”

“My dad,” Byleth says, rebandaging the bullet wound with fresh gauze. “I was the one who found you.”

“Still sounds like you saved me,” Claude says, glancing over to Jeralt who glares at him before slipping out of the room. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Don’t mention it.” She fetches a cup for him and fills it with water, holding it to his lips so he can sip from it and quench his parched throat. 

“Not gonna ask why I was bleeding out on the sidewalk outside your cafe?” Claude asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’d imagine that’s not something you see every day.”

“You got shot,” Byleth says, shrugging. “That answers that.”

Claude raises an eyebrow at her. “Not even going to ask why? If I were you I’d be asking all sorts of difficult questions.”

Byleth smiles at that, a small thing that looks almost fond. “I’m not you. And I’d wager I already know more than you think I do. But we’ve done all we’re equipped to do for you. I’ve called someone out to take a proper look at your injury. They’ll be here soon.”

And Claude is absolutely not okay with any of this. Sure, he’s glad he’s not dead on the pavement, but exactly  _ how  _ well equipped is a coffee shop to deal with bullet wounds and, more importantly,  _ why _ is Byleth not trying to rinse him for information about said bullet wound? Something reeks here and it’s not the antiseptic. 

“Byleth,” Claude says, reaching out to grab her wrist as she makes to stand. She stops, looking from his hand on her wrist to his face. She could break his grip easily right now and she knows it. But she doesn’t. “Tell me what’s going on. Who  _ are  _ you?”

She looks conflicted, eyes flicking over his face as she struggles with what must be some internal debate with herself. “I can’t,” is what she says, finally looking away. “I can’t tell you. Not yet.” She pulls away and Claude’s hand drops limply down to his side. “Get some rest. We’ll talk later.”

Lucky for her, Claude’s fucking exhausted so rest is pretty much all he wants to do.  _ Unlucky  _ for her, he’s also curious and insistent, so they absolutely  _ will _ talk about this later. Because it fucking  _ looks  _ like his cute coffee shop crush is on Garreg Mach’s payroll. Which he’s definitely got an opinion about, though right now he can’t decide if it’s a good or bad one. As soon as his body stops wanting to be unconscious more than anything else, they’re going to have a long,  _ long  _ chat. Oh, yes. He’s adept at getting answers and he’s got some pretty good ideas of how to—

He’s out before he can finish the thought. 

  
  


—

  
  


The second time he comes around it’s to someone poking his cheek constantly, but thankfully this time he’s in significantly less agony. He still hurts like all get out but the feverish heat seems to have abated, leaving him a little warm but not uncomfortably so. The only real issues are the steady ache in his side and the  _ relentless poking of his face.  _

“Quit it,” he snaps, batting the hand away and cracking one eye open. He groans when the grinning face of the perpetrator comes into focus, bubblegum pink hair offensively bright to his tired eyes. “Oh, god, who let you in here?”

“Rude,” Hilda says, poking him again for good measure. “After we came all the way out here to see you. Nice job getting shot, by the way. You ruined your nearly perfect record.”

“Don’t remind me,” Claude says, wincing as he slowly sits up. The couch is far too long for him really, and he’s stiff from laying in one position for too long. “Who’s we? Is Marianne with you?”

“Yeah, she’s out front talking to Byleth.” Hilda’s eyes sparkle with amusement. “Bet that was a bit of a shock for you, finding out your coffee shop crush is a fucking Garreg Mach legend.”

“Legend?” Claude frowns. “Who is she?”

“Oh, my god, you don’t  _ know? _ ”

The glare he aims at her has had many a mark literally piss themselves in fear. It has no effect on Hilda whatsoever. Never has. Damn it. Thankfully, though, she takes pity on him and leans in close to murmur right by his ear. “She’s Sothis.”

Claude’s mouth goes dry. His mind whirls with that revelation, leaving him icy cold and reeling wildly off balance. He  _ knows _ Sothis, only by reputation, but there’s nobody at Garreg Mach who doesn’t know who she was and what she could do. The story went that she was a freelance agent at first, untouchable and deadly, and got brought onto Garreg Mach’s books about six years ago. She was pretty much single-handedly responsible for making the company what it is today, and she had more kills to her name than anybody else. She’d disappeared without a trace shortly before Claude had joined and the assumption had been that she’d died on a job gone wrong but it was never confirmed. Turns out she’d just opened a cafe in downtown Fódlan, but what she’s been doing for the past five years is anybody’s guess.

“She’s intel now,” Hilda says, leaning back in the chair she’s dragged over to Claude’s makeshift bedside. “I thought Sothis had died, everybody did, but turns out she just takes on the  _ specialist  _ assignments and handles other field agents when she needs to.”

Claude doesn’t know how he feels about that. He doesn’t know how he’s  _ supposed  _ to feel. Byleth had been an outsider, someone untouched by Garreg Mach and the dark underworld that lay beneath it. She was supposed to be safe, different. But it turns out she’s just like him. Deadly, secretive. It’s too much to take in. 

He doesn’t get long to brood over that because Marianne steps into the room, Jeralt and Byleth following behind and he resolutely doesn’t not look at her. He smiles at Marianne, albeit strained, and she pats his shoulder when she sits down in the seat Hilda graciously vacates for her. She peels the gauze away from his wound and makes a soft noise of distress, turning to look at Jeralt. 

“What did you use to disinfect the wound?”

“Bleach,” Jeralt says and Claude gives a wordless exclamation of dismay. “What? It works just fine.”

“You couldn’t have used  _ soap? _ ” Claude demands, trying to lean round and glare at the older man. “You couldn’t have used  _ anything else? _ Your first go to was  _ bleach?” _

“I watered it down,” Jeralt says like that makes it any better. 

“Easy,” Marianne says soothingly, laying a gentle hand over Claude’s side. “It’s alright, you’re okay. They saved your life, Claude.”

“With bleach,” he mutters darkly but sighs and settles back down on the couch. “If you wouldn’t mind, Marianne, could you please do a  _ better  _ job of patching me up?”

She smiles at him gently and nods, laying her other hand beside the first over his wound. She closes her eyes exhales slowly and then a soft, white light is radiating out from beneath her palms, chasing away the burn of the injury and filling Claude’s battered body with a deep sense of relief. He groans as the muscle and sinew inside the bullet hole begin to knit themselves back together, itching something awful but nowhere near as painful as before. 

“Do you want something to bite down on?” Hilda asks. 

“No,” Claude pants, jaw clenched tightly against another groan of discomfort. “I’m okay.”

“Well, could you anyway? Your groans of distress are really off-putting.”

He flips her off. “Bite me, Hilda.” She pokes her tongue out at him and leans over Marianne’s shoulder to check the progress of the healing. She wrinkles her nose in disgust. Supportive as ever. 

“We were really worried about you,” Marianne says because she’s a literal angel. 

“Speak for yourself,” Hilda says. “We got to your place probably only ten minutes after you made a break for it. Cethleanne said you went dark and put a call out, but when we got there we found about ten dead Eagles and no sign of you, so we knew you were alright. Then Byleth called and said she had you and we came straight over. Lys is really pissed at you. The  _ state _ you left your house in. Honestly, Claude, you’re getting rusty.”

“She’s not pissed,” Marianne says, sending more white energy into Claude’s body and chasing away the assorted aches and pains accumulated from his nighttime tangle with the Eagles. He sighs softly, left sleepy and soothed by her gentle magic. “We were all worried, Hilda especially.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Hilda snaps. “His ego is inflated enough already.”

“Knew you loved me,” Claude mumbles with a crooked smile. 

“Ugh. Come on, Marianne, let him sleep. I like him better when he’s unconscious.”

He assumes they all file out and leave him to rest, which is fine because now that he’s properly healed he might actually be able to get some real sleep, even on this awful couch. He’s swimming hazily on a pain-free cloud of rejuvenating magical energy when he hears the chair beside the couch creak. When he looks over he sees Byleth sitting beside him, watching his face with an unreadable expression. 

“Hilda told you, then.” It’s not a question. 

“Yeah. Was surprised at first but… Makes sense.”

“I was injured,” she says, patting her chest. “Really badly. Took a curse meant for Cichol and it nearly killed me. The Archbishop pulled me from active duty and I’ve been a handler ever since. Even taught some of the newbies for a while.”

Claude huffs a faint laugh. “Bet you loved that. Pulled from the front lines and forced to school brats instead.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I enjoy being a handler.” She reaches out and brushes a lock of hair away from his face. When she speaks again her voice is soft. “Are you upset?”

Claude takes a minute to really think about that. Is he? Not really. Maybe? He’s not sure. “Don’t know,” he says honestly. “It’s your business, but… I don’t know, I think I’m just a bit shocked. You were meant to be…” He trails off and tries again, rewording his jumbled thoughts. “To me, you were outside all this. Untouched by it. Different. You were safe and I think I fixated on that. Made myself believe that because you were outside it all it was okay for me to get infatuated because I knew nothing could happen. It was just an errant dream.” He snorts. “I know nothing  _ can  _ happen, don’t worry, I know there’s someone else.”

“Yeah,” Byleth says, sighing the word out on a breath. 

Claude hums. “Tell me about them?”

“What?”

“The ‘someone else’. Tell me about them. Want to make sure they’re good enough for you.” He doesn’t know why he asks. Morbid curiosity, maybe? 

“He’s…” Byleth sighs. “He’s different. I’ve known him for years but… I still don’t  _ know  _ him. He’s closed off, a lot like you. He doesn’t let anybody in, he keeps up a barrier and I don’t know if it’s because he’s afraid of being hurt or if he just doesn’t trust easily. But he has plans, or at least I think he does. Plans for the city, plans for the future and I really want to see him succeed. I got assigned to him on my first assignment as a handler and after that job I requested to be his sole operator because we worked so well together. It became my job to keep him alive and now I do it because… I can’t bear the thought of anything happening to him and I don’t trust anyone else to do it like I can.” She laughs and it’s a small, sad sound. Claude doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of this. “I’d do anything for him. I don’t even think he knows.”

Claude blinks. “You haven’t told him?”

“No.”

“Why not? Scared he’ll turn you down? He’d be a fucking idiot if he did.” That pulls a real laugh out of her and he revels in the victory of it. “I’m serious.”

“He is a bit of an idiot,” she says and the fondness in her tone stings. “But I care about him so much.”

“Lucky guy,” Claude mumbles. “Asshole doesn’t know how good he has it. I’ve got to be honest, I’m not exactly rooting for the guy, but… I hope you get a chance at happiness with him. You deserve that.”

“Thank you,” she murmurs. “I hope so too.” She brushes her cool fingers gently across his cheek. “Falling asleep on me? Am I that boring?”

“Not at all,” Claude mumbles, offering her a lazy smile. “I’m just exhausted. But thank you for speaking with me. It was nice...” His eyes slide closed when he can’t keep them open any longer and he snorts one final faint laugh at his favourite private joke. “Talk to you soon. Signing off.”

He hears Byleth inhale softly and then stand and move away from him to do whatever it is she has to do while he rests. Run the coffee shop and report to the Archbishop, presumably. But the last thing he hears before he drifts off is her soft voice from somewhere far away. 

“Missing you already.”

  
  


—

  
  


Healed and mobile again, Claude gets up and takes Byleth’s offer of a much needed shower before he joins the Deer that have assembled out in the seating area of the cafe. Hilda has brought him clean clothes which he’s immeasurably grateful for and he dresses slowly once properly clean and takes a moment to stand in the borrowed bedroom of the apartment above the cafe and assess the situation. 

Not the Eagles situation, he doesn’t really give two shits about that. It’s going to end with bloodshed either way and he doesn’t particularly care whose at this point as long as Edelgard is put down for what she’s done to Dimitri. No, the situation that he’s more focused on is what has caused him to reinforce the walls between him and the rest of the world, which he’d foolishly let inch slowly down all those months ago when he’d stumbled into Remire for the first time. He’d been an idiot and trusted too quickly when he knows full well what kind of shit comes from being too free with his loyalties. He can handle Byleth being Sothis, he has no problem with that. 

But he can’t handle her being Teach. That feels like the ultimate betrayal. 

He’s certain his suspicions are correct, because there’s only one person who responds to his sign off like that, and he’s  _ also  _ certain that she wanted him to know which is a dick move, in his opinion. Maybe it was stupid for him to believe that he was Teach’s only agent, but in a company as big as Garreg Mach surely there are enough handlers for all the field operatives so they don’t have to double up? Surely that’s a reasonable thought and Claude isn’t being a huge asshole?

She’d always been there when he’d needed her, on every job in the past five years. Can’t blame a guy for feeling a little special, right? Can’t blame a guy for feeling a little betrayed that she’s fallen in love with an agent who  _ isn’t _ him.

Worst part is, he knows none of this is her fault and that she’s entirely free of blame. She’s not responsible for his errant heart and distrustful mind and his stupid infatuation that was supposed to  _ go away.  _ He knows it’s not her fault. But he’s angry with her anyway. 

So yeah, he might be the asshole in this situation. But give him a break, he’s just been shot and, worse, lied to for five years. He’s a little tender right now. 

He pulls himself together and heads downstairs, Failnaught a reassuring weight against his back and he smiles thinly at the Deer when they all rush to him and express their thoughts at seeing him alive and unharmed. He catches himself smiling genuinely at them all and then pulls that shit  _ right  _ back and shoves it down and waves them all away like they’re nothing more than amusing nuisances and sits at the table. There’s a cup of freshly brewed Almyran pine needle tea waiting for him. He pushes it neatly aside and goes for water instead. Byleth notices because of course she does. 

God, he’s such an asshole. 

But they have more pressing matters to attend to. 

“They have Garreg Mach on lockdown,” Ignatz says, wringing his hands anxiously in his lap. “No one enters or leaves unless the Eagles give the word. They have some sort of weapon system targeted on it? And the Archbishop and her guard are captive inside.”

Held captive in their own agency. It has a twisted sense of poetic irony to it. Claude finds himself begrudgingly impressed. This isn’t a roughshod job, this is  _ years  _ of planning in the making. 

“Do we know why?” Claude asks, scribbling notes down on a roll of receipt paper. It’s the best they have right now so it’ll have to do. “Has Edelgard made any more demands?”

“Still the disbanding of the agency and your head,” Leonie says. “And we still don’t know why.”

“Yeah, we do,” Jeralt says and Byleth nods. Oh, of  _ course _ they’d know all about it. How funny. 

_ Easy, Claude,  _ he tells himself.  _ Don’t be an asshole.  _

He really kind of wants to be, though. 

“So what do we know?” He asks, looking over at Jeralt. “What’s her motivation?”

“She thinks Garreg Mach is keeping the city divided,” he says, arms folded and customary scowl in place. “She thinks taking it out of the picture will free the city and the people. I don’t think she’s wrong, but I think her way requires a bit too much bloodshed.”

There’s an uneasy pause and Claude knows exactly what the Deer are thinking. Edelgard  _ is  _ right. Garreg Mach is the ruling force in the city, even if the regular people don’t know it. It’s got a monopoly over power over every other region, has the firepower to keep it that way, and hires agents from all over to assist them in keeping the opposition down. Claude puts his pen down at that, carefully compartmentalising the information he’s trying to digest. 

“So,” he says, steepling his fingers. “We stop Edelgard and then we dismantle Garreg Mach from the inside. Redistribute the power to the people and put an end to the agency once and for all. Sound like a plan?”

“It  _ sounds  _ like suicide,” Lysithea says. “I’m in.”

“Me too,” Raphael adds. 

“Let’s go,” Leonie agrees. 

“We must,” Lorenz vows.

“Enough,” Claude groans. “I wasn’t asking for you all to chip in, god almighty. I  _ know  _ you’re in, I was only asking for a general confirmation.” He scratches the back of his head. “We need to take Myrddin first. Once we have that sector, we free up the board and move forward. Then Ailell, then Merceus, then Enbarr. After that, we get the Archbishop, Cichol and Cethleanne out of Garreg Mach, and then we level it.” He considers. “Though maybe we need a secondary play here. Taking Garreg Mach out is going to leave a power vacuum that could destroy the city.”

It  _ can’t  _ be this easy. Can it? A far flung dream from his boyhood so close to being realised. Can they really dismantle Garreg Mach so easily after so long? Can  _ he  _ do it? 

Only one way to find out. 

“This is going to be our last job, isn’t it?” Hilda asks and Claude watches her hand tighten round Marianne’s. He feels a stab of bitterness that he is careful not to let show on his face. 

“One last job,” he agrees. “And then we’re out.”

  
  


—

  
  


You don’t apply for a job at Garreg Mach. Garreg Mach chooses you. 

Every single agent on their books has a debt that only Garreg Mach can clear and while he might not know what those debts are for everyone else, Claude is keenly aware of his own. His only sin, as the Archbishop would put it, is that he was born. His debt is to pay Garreg Mach back for what his mother did when she left Fódlan for Almyra, refusing to be part of the game of power they were playing with the city. It was apparently an unforgivable slight, choosing to break free from her family and the antiquated belief that a city needs to be governed or it will fall, and Claude had been dragged into the twisted play of politics when he was still too young to fully understand what any of it meant. 

He understands now, better than he ever did, that Garreg Mach is a sickness festering in the heart of the city, a malignant tumor that needs to be excised. Edelgard’s beliefs may be right, but her method is all wrong. They can do this without bloodshed, now that the Archbishop’s influence is dulled, they're finally in a position to hit back hard enough to make a difference. 

But Edelgard never could see the smaller parts of the bigger picture. Her illusions of grandeur were always too extravagant for Claude to stomach. 

He’s been trying to get back home for years. He might finally get the chance now. And he might  _ finally  _ get the chance to unite both cities for the betterment of each. It’s a heady thought and one that he thinks of often because it’s much nicer than thinking of everything else that’s gone to shit. Exhibit A: his entire life. 

They relocate to a safe house that Jeralt has had since the nineties, a much bigger workspace to scheme in than the shitty apartment above Remire. Okay, the apartment isn’t  _ shitty _ , Claude’s just cranky and stressed, but the safe house on the docks is a lot roomier and means it’s easier to avoid the others if he sticks to his own chosen room. 

It’s  _ not  _ easy to avoid them when they actively seek him out. Which none of the Deer do because they know better. 

Byleth does not. 

So when the others are out either on a supply run or recon for intel about their next objective, she corners him when he attempts to get something to eat from the kitchen, slamming the fridge door shut the moment he opens it. 

“You know,” she says flatly, hand presses against the fridge door so firmly that Claude is physically incapable of opening it no matter how hard he tries. It’s a little embarrassing. 

“I know lots of things,” Claude says childishly. “What are you referring to this time?”

“You know who I am,” she says and Claude sneers at her because he’s decided to lean fully into his new asshole attitude. Getting shot makes you rude, apparently. He’s rude now. It’s thrilling. 

“Yeah, I do,” he says, folding his arms. “What of it?”

She stares at him. “What  _ of  _ it? Don’t you have anything to say?”

“Mm, nope. Should I?”

“ _ Yes,  _ obviously. Everything I said— Back at Remire. That didn’t mean anything to you?”

“Should it have?” Claude asks, actually a little confused by that. “What, you deigned to bless me with facts about your shitty love life and I’m supposed to be, what? Grateful?” It’s incredibly hard for him to be an asshole actually, because that same thought stabs into his mind, that none of this is her fault, that he’s being a jealous little bitch, as Hilda would say. But he’s stressed and sad and hurting and if Byleth wants to make herself a target, he’s sure as fuck not going to miss. “Oh, thank you  _ so  _ much for telling me about the agent you’re so in love with. I’m so fucking happy to hear all about that.  _ Please,  _ tell me more. It’s not like we’re in the middle of a fucking  _ war against the Eagles  _ or anything,  _ Teach.” _

He’s expecting it when she slaps him. It still stings. 

He is  _ not _ expecting her to kiss him. 

It’s not gentle and he can feel the anger behind it, the pent up rage and frustration, he can feel it because it’s in him, too, making him sick. They’re caught up in a situation they never should have been in, made into soldiers on the Archbishop’s whim, trained killers who don’t know any other path, never got the chance to find one. Byleth clutches at his jacket, bites at his mouth and he claws at her waist to pull her closer, but it’s a mocking facsimile of what he really wants. He wanted this - wanted  _ her.  _ He wanted it so much and he still does, but not like this. 

He feels wetness against his cheeks and it’s surprising enough that he pulls back, gasping for air in the wake of Byleth’s fury-fuelled onslaught. When he looks down at her she’s crying and she looks absolutely furious to have been caught doing so. 

“You  _ don’t  _ know,” she says bitterly, the line of her shoulders so tense she’s practically vibrating with it. “I thought you did and you were angry at me for not telling you. But you  _ don’t _ know because you’re an  _ idiot  _ and you’re being a fucking asshole about it _.” _

“I agree wholeheartedly,” Claude says breathlessly, leaning back against the kitchen counter because his legs really want to give out. “But maybe if you tell me, I’ll know and I won’t be an idiot. And I can apologise for being an asshole.”

She shudders and he can’t tell if it’s from tears or if she’s laughing at him. He really hopes it’s the latter. “I’m your Teach,” she says, wiping her eyes roughly. The look she gives him is aiming hard for anger, but there’s no real heat in her eyes so it misses by a mile. She just looks  _ sad.  _ “I’m your Teach and I  _ love  _ you.”

Claude hears the words she says, dimly, sees her mouth move when she says them, but his ears are ringing too loudly for him to process them properly. He swallows hard. “You said…”

“I know what I said,” Byleth snaps. “And I said it first because you didn’t know who I was and I couldn’t tell you and it wouldn’t be fair on either of us. I said it again because I  _ still  _ couldn’t tell you because you were my charge and you were injured and it wasn’t how I wanted you to find out. But then you asked me to tell you about who I loved and I  _ literally  _ described you  _ to  _ you and I thought you’d gotten it. You said ‘signing off’ and I said… And I thought… I thought you knew. But then you pulled away from me.”

“Because,” Claude says round the lump in this throat that’s making it hard to breathe, “I’m an idiot. We established that.”

“You are an idiot,” Byleth agrees, managing a small smile. “But you’re  _ my  _ idiot.”

“Am I still allowed to be?” He asks, reaching out to wipe a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I was so cruel to you…” And he  _ was  _ cruel, as much as it hurts to acknowledge it. She’s done nothing wrong. She’s done nothing but her job and she’s done nothing but love him, watch over him, keep him safe, and always from a distance no matter how much it must have hurt. He’s  _ such _ an asshole. 

“No,” she says, leaning into his touch and lifting a hand to lay over his when he cups her cheek gently in his palm. It’s the first time he can ever remember touching her kindly and that’s something he wants to remedy, if he can. “But I want you to be.”

Hope is a terrifying thing. It’s fragile and easily broken and not meant for men like Claude. But it’s also a wonderful, intoxicating thing that makes dreamers of the most hardhearted people. And Claude may wish that it is, but his heart is not hard. Not against her. Never against her. 

“Teach,” he says softly, lifting his other hand so he’s cupping her face in both his palms. She smiles at him, eyes still wet but sparkling in the fluorescent light of the dingy safe house kitchen like sapphires. He could lose himself in those eyes. He wants to. He leans in to kiss her and she moves up to meet him. 

“We’re baaaaack!” Hilda trills, slamming the door open and cementing her place firmly at the top of Claude’s shit list when he and Byleth have to jump apart. “I know you said no takeout deliveries to the safe house, but can’t we bend the rules this once? If I have to look at another vegetable today I’m gonna lose my  _ mind. _ ”

“Absolutely not,” Claude says, only a few degrees away from seething and feeling  _ far  _ from charitable. “And you’re on dishwasher duty tonight.”

“Me?! What did  _ I  _ do?! I went  _ grocery  _ shopping for you, you ungrateful bastard!” She lobs an entire head of lettuce at him which smacks him right in the face, but despite the way his nose smarts and his eyes water from the vicious attack via vegetable, it’s worth it for the way it makes Byleth laugh. 

And then much later, when he’s lying in bed unable to sleep and thoughts of tomorrow’s mission in Myrddin keep whirling around in his head, his door softly creaks open and a figure slips inside, illuminated briefly from the light in the hall. She crosses the room silently and Claude moves over in the small bed to make room for her to lie beside him. She curls up against him with her head on his shoulder and her weight in his arms is just the grounding force he needs to find peace enough to sleep. 

  
  


—

  
  


They take Myrddin. They take Ailell. They take Gronder and Merceus until all that’s left is Enbarr. Life in the city goes on as normal, ignorant to the bloody war being waged in Fódlan’s underbelly for the good of the people. It’s gruelling and exhausting, but in between it all, Claude steals every moment he can for himself so that he can spend it with Byleth. It’s easy enough to cover because she’s got a gift for helping his plans come to life and he’s never worked so well with anyone before, but that’s to be expected from his beloved Teach, who can anticipate his every move and create the perfect scenario to compliment him. She’s a beast with tactics and a force to be reckoned with and now that he’s witness to it, he understands exactly how she earned the title of legend. 

He thinks the Deer have caught on but doesn't particularly care if they have, not when they’re already either paired up or disinclined to be, but Hilda’s knowing winks are getting a little old now. The only reason Claude isn’t inclined to be obvious is because he’s fairly certain Jeralt will actually kill him, and he does actually want to get their final job done before Byleth’s father strangles him and threads his corpse through the garbage disposal. It’s a sobering thought and one that amuses Byleth to no end, but when he mentions it to her she neither confirms nor denies that Jeralt may choose to end his miserable life, which is terrifying, quite frankly. 

So he plays it safe and continues to steal moments with her, promising himself that once this is all over, they’ll have their time together. 

And then take Enbarr, and as much as Claude wishes it had been him, Byleth is the one to end Edelgard’s life with a honed blade to her throat, carving a line across pale flesh in a fluid motion so deeply personal that it looks almost intimate. He gets to see Sothis in action, and she’s just as deadly as the stories make her out to be, but to Claude she’s also fiercely, lethally beautiful. 

He wants to give her Garreg Mach because he knows she’ll be able to make something of it and there’s no one he can see leading the company better. But when the dust settles and the Archbishop and her retinue disappear and he offers it to her, she declines with a faint smile. 

“I don’t want it,” she says simply. “I never did. Give it to the Deer and the Lions. Fódlan still needs them, but it doesn’t need me.”

He does. And he trusts them to lead Garreg Mach properly. And then he finds himself jobless but with enough money to retire several times over. 

So he does the one thing he’s wanted to do since he first joined Garreg Mach as a young boy with a dream and the forced weight of someone else’s sins on his shoulders. 

He goes home. And Byleth goes with him. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I fully intend to write a horny coda. Stay tuned.
> 
> I can’t fucking believe I wrote 16000 words of world building just so these idiots could bone. I’m in too deep.


End file.
